


Playing to Win

by Anglofile



Series: Matchpoint [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Meetings, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglofile/pseuds/Anglofile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course the damn man had to be attractive and enigmatic and sexy as hell with his suits and brown, almost auburn hair. God, if he weren’t a loyal married man he’d be demanding to have resentful hate sex against the nearest available surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/gifts).



There were days where Gregory enjoyed his job. Days where he bloody well loved his job. And then there were days when he wanted to ask anyone who could listen just why people were determined to make his job more difficult than it already was.  

 

Days like today. 

 

The day in question included finding a waif of an addict breaking into a designated a crime scene, said waif then announcing the deepest secrets of everyone on his team when they tried to stop him from contaminating the area, and more than one of said team trying to clock him for what he'd said. In the melee, the interloper scanned the crime scene and then told Greg precisely who he was looking for.

 

Greg scoffed and told them to hold the man for questioning.

 

An hour later and the boyfriend of the victim was being arrested for the murder of the poor woman they’d found in the bedroom and Greg was trying to discuss just how Sherlock Holmes, the odd named twat with the odd shaped face, had known who the murderer was.

 

The younger man was all too pleased to show off how he knew the identity of the murderer. The woman’s hands had revealed it all and Greg’s team were simply too stupid to see it according to him. Greg was exhausted by the time he let Holmes go and he knew there was no way he’d seen the last of him.

 

The truth was, Greg didn’t want it to be the last he saw of the lad. It was clear that for all of Sherlock’s brains, he was lost. Cocaine, the younger man had admitted, was the only thing to help when his mind stagnated from boredom. It was clear his addictions were going to be the end of him if no one helped him and Greg wanted to help.

 

 Something told Greg that Sherlock Holmes was worth it. The younger man was amazing in his abilities; he just needed a guiding hand to put him firmly on the good side of things. Either that...or Greg was confusing wanting to help with what would be a monumental cock up of good judgment.

 

Christ, he just needed a cup of tea, a long holiday or two, and some peace.

 

He found the tea in the break room, but the peace and the holiday was in short supply. Greg entered his office again to see another man sitting where his ‘consultant’ Sherlock Holmes had been not fifteen minutes before.

 

Where Sherlock Holmes had perched upon the chair like a disgruntled cat, the man sitting there now made the chair practically a throne. But for all the differences in looks and demeanor, there was an uncanny glint to his eyes hat reminded Greg of the dark haired self-proclaimed detective. It was quite obvious that both men were unremittingly demanding of their right to be in his office, invited or not, and both men certainly made Greg’s copper instincts tingle, warning him to be firm and resolute as an officer of the Metropolitan Police yet to be careful, very careful of where he tread. 

 

"Can I help you?" Greg asked cautiously, “Think you’ve got the wrong floor, mate."

 

One perfectly shaped eyebrow rose on the man’s forehead. “I’ve heard Sherlock Holmes has aided you with one your cases. Could you confirm that?"

 

There was no confusion or lack of knowledge in the man’s eyes. Greg could see that the question was only a nod to civility. He came round his desk to sit down and stare at his unwanted guest. “I think you know perfectly well he has." 

 

There was a brief glint of amused respect in the man’s expression before it was quickly hidden away behind a dignified mask. Greg suddenly felt he was in a fencing match. Parry, thrust…point to Lestrade.

 

“I think you should allow him to work on any cases he sees fit to help you with.” 

 

Greg snorted. “You do know that’s not how the Met works, don’t you? We can’t just have civilians who fancy themselves to be a bit of a detective running around crime scenes.”

 

His guest smoothed down invisible wrinkles in his waistcoat, clearly stalling for time while Greg argued. Greg saw, and noticed far more than he liked to admit, how well the suit fit him, like it had been made for him. Of course it had. The man practically screamed money and power.

 

“That’s been arranged. You don’t have to worry about any problems from your superiors,” his visitor stated with a smile that failed to hide the steel beneath what had just been said. Do what I want, the subtext said, or face the consequences.

 

“Do you think I’m going to accept your word that I’m not going to be hauled in for a reprimand?” Greg asked with a frown, “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”

 

The other man leaned forward. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement that allows him to work on your cases. Come now, you’re a reasonable man. I can make it easier for you to accept what is already going to happen.”

 

The penny dropped and Greg shook his head. The suit, the cryptic phrasing, and the offer to make it all easier? It all added up. Bollocks. Greg stood up suddenly and pointed at the door. “Get out.”

 

His visitor became utterly still. “I beg your pardon?”

 

Oh this was good. The other man radiated pure shock at being thwarted, as if the idea of not getting his way had never entered the man’s brain until this very point in time. Greg would bet his entire salary the posh git wasn’t often told no, if ever he was. He felt rather accomplished, the thrill of it just encouraging the outrage flowing through his veins.

 

“Look, I don’t know what skint copper you’ve got on your payroll but I’m not going to take any bribe of yours, you posh git,” Greg said, teeth gritted with anger,  “Get out and if you’re lucky, I won’t find out who you are and report you.”

 

“We’ll talk again later,” the other man replied, grimacing for a moment before the expression retreated behind a complete mask of no emotion at all. He nodded once and walked out of Greg’s office, head held high.

 

Greg felt the hairs on his neck rise. He didn't let his eyes leave the man's retreating form until he'd disappeared into the lift. 

 

An hour passed as Greg worked on paperwork, keeping references to his ‘consultant’ to a minimum for both their benefits, when yet another person entered his office without his permission. Apparently it was the day for it. One look at the woman, smart tailored suit and all, and he knew who had sent her.

 

There really was no way his earlier guest would have given up so easily, was there? Match two, now in progress.

 

“Is there a sign on my door that says “Always Open” or something?” Greg growled, “There is a reason people invented knocking you know.”

 

The woman, smirking now after Greg’s brief verbal rebellion, handed him a thick envelope and then promptly left, no words leaving her mouth at all. God forbid his Lordship allow them to speak. They might stage a bloody coup and then where would they be? Greg rolled his eyes and cursed this day to hell.

 

The envelope weighed heavy with the implicit demand he read it immediately. He could feel the high quality paper as he turned the envelope over in his hands. His name was written in picture perfect handwriting from a fountain pen on the front. And as he turned it back over he saw a red wax seal, which he quickly broke as he opened the envelope to see what was inside.

 

_Detective Inspector,_

_I apologise for the misunderstanding of this afternoon. I have cleared Sherlock’s involvement with the Met by your superiors, and as I write this, you should have memos to that effect in your inbox. I’m sure you can understand the concern of an older brother in regards to his difficult younger sibling. Simply put, he needs to help you and for that, he needs your help._

_Allow myself to make it up to you by buying you a drink this evening. I’m sure your wife will not mind you being absent for a few hours more._

_Sincerely,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

_P.S. Get in the black car waiting for you when you leave the building._

_Please._

 

Greg shook his head. Holmes. Of course, the similar eyes, the all-knowing smugness, even the sense of over the top drama about making things easier and Christ, the seal. The fucking seal, family fucking crest and all. It was all confirmation that the man’s pinky finger was posher than Greg’s entire ancestry.

 

Of course the damn man had to be attractive and enigmatic and sexy as hell with his suits and brown, almost auburn hair too. God, if he weren’t a loyal married man he’d be demanding to have resentful hate sex against the nearest available surface.

 

It was the pure cheek of the man, the please at the end of the letter being an obvious afterthought, that almost made Greg refuse him. Then the full force of his day and the trouble both Holmes men had caused him hit Greg and he decided the least he could do, the least Mycroft Bloody Holmes could do, would be to buy him a drink.

 

He stood up, pulled on his jacket, and planned to ask for the most expensive drink he could think of when he arrived.

 

 

 

 


	2. Change of Engagement

Greg sat in his living room, staring sightlessly down at the divorce papers that arrived earlier in the day. It was done. Over. A ten year marriage ended with the stroke of a pen.

 

It was probably a sign of how much they’d drifted apart that Greg felt more disappointment he hadn’t seen the obvious signs of a cheating partner than he had about it actually ending. No wonder Sherlock always complained about him not seeing things. He couldn’t blame Janet entirely for it though. God knew he could have been home more and it was hard being the wife of a cop.

 

It had just taken one of them being brave enough to call it quits.

 

So here he was, single, rapidly approaching 50 with grey hair, a body to match, and a job that had already proven itself as being hard on relationships. Who in their right mind would want him?

 

His phone buzzed. He didn’t feel like answering it. The little indicator light glowed blue. Greg sighed. It could be work. He really should check.

 

_Would you like to meet for dinner? MH_

 

Greg frowned at his phone as he tried to interpret the true meaning of the text. It was a familiar motion in regards to communications from the elder Holmes brother. Sometimes he thought Mycroft enjoyed couching his demands in perfectly innocuous phrases just to see his puppets dance. A tired defiance bubbled up inside him which spilled over with ample help from the aftereffects of his divorce, and before he could even consciously think it, he began to reply with the first thing that came to his mind.

 

He paused, shook his head, and rewrote it.

 

_Not on duty. No cases with brother since last time. GL_

 

Greg pressed send. At least it was better than ‘Bugger off. I’m not on your fucking payroll you absolute tossing wanker.’ He was sure Mycroft would understand the subtext, given how much of a master he was at it.

 

Greg didn't think about it after that and the phone was tossed across the room in a fit of frustration.  He and Janet had drifted apart and he wasn’t entirely blameless in the demise of their relationship…but he still didn’t want to be around anyone right now. He just wanted time to mourn it and move on.

 

Hell, he still needed to get drunk and soppy over it. Then he could wake up with a massive hangover and get on with his life. Maybe he could even find someone who would go to bed with a old grey haired detective inspector. Greg snorted and went to get a beer. Beer didn’t expect anything of him after all and that's all Greg wanted. 

 

The bottle had barely been touched when there was a knock on the door.

 

Greg pulled himself up, if only to tell whoever was behind the door to bugger off. He’d just gotten back from his holiday for God’s sake. When he opened the door, the person standing there stopped his rant before it was even born.

 

Of course. When did either of them _ever_ take no for an answer?

 

Mycroft Holmes stood before him, bag of takeaway in hand and wearing a knitted jumper and plain trousers that likely cost more than Greg’s monthly salary. Greg hadn’t even known the man knew what casual clothing was, let alone owned any. He absentmindedly brushed at his own ragged jeans as he floundered for something to say.

 

“I told you…,” Greg began, weary and worn from having to even _explain._

 

“I thought you might reconsider my proposal of dinner,” Mycroft interrupted smoothly, holding up the bag of food in his hand.

 

Greg’s shoulders slumped. Christ, he thought someone so smart could get the point. “I’m not good company Mycroft. I’m really not.”

 

The other man’s eyebrows rose.

 

“As an excellent coincidence, I happen to be excellent company and thus can fill in any deficiencies on your part. Your job is to eat the food, mine to provide the company.”

 

Greg began to laugh wearily. Rubbing at his eyes with his left hand, he stood to the side to allow the other man to come inside.

 

“Alright, alright fine. Come in and be the excellent company you claim to be. Drink?”

 

“Wine?”

 

“Beer. Tea if your poshness is okay with PG Tips.”

 

“I fear I can deal with anything for one evening.” Mycroft’s lips curled up with dry humor as he turned to look around the room. He looked a bit out of place surrounded by cheap furniture and boxes but then again he would. Greg felt out of place himself. 

 

Greg rolled his eyes and went to turn the kettle on. What was Mycroft even doing here anyway?

 

They weren’t mates so much as close acquaintances, their respective busy schedules had prevented them from any close friendship…but Greg liked Mycroft, which was a world away from what he’d thought of him during their first meeting. The past few years had seen the development of a relationship based on mutual respect and their concern for Mycroft’s brother. The best Greg could say is that they got on.

 

Mycroft didn’t seem as if he had much in the way of friends though, but Greg suspected Mycroft’s lack in that area had more to do with an inscrutable personality and busy job than anything else. He wasn’t too bad to talk to lately, if Greg was to be honest. It was only occasionally now that he felt they were crossing swords and counting points, and that was usually because Greg refused to do what Mycroft wanted him to do.

 

Personally, he thought it was a good exercise for Mycroft to be thwarted on small scale. Kept him humble…or as humble as a Holmes could be.

 

Teabag steeped and milk and sugar added, Greg came back into the living room and handed the cup to Mycroft, who was now sitting on the sofa.

 

“Thank you,” Mycroft smiled, taking the cup from Greg’s hands.

 

Greg sat down and was silent for a moment. He frowned.

 

“What-“

 

“You don’t need to be alone right now. And I consider you to be a…friend if I may,” Mycroft interrupted.

 

Well that answered that.

 

Greg sighed. “I…yeah. You’re probably right. But if you’re here to get me through the divorce, you’ve got to drink some form of alcohol. Male bonding if it helps to call it that-“

 

Someone knocked on the door. Greg sighed.

 

“That’s your posh wine arriving, isn’t it?”

 

Mycroft smiled.

* * *

 

“How was the holiday?” Mycroft enquired politely, “I envy your ability to tan. I burn terribly and then freckle as further punishment.”

 

“Freckles aren’t so bad,” Greg replied.  Then he shrugged. “Well, you know. Sun, sand, first holiday without the wife. Couldn’t help but think that she’d be shagging the resort staff if we’d gone together.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “Do you miss her?”

 

“I think it’s kind of natural, we were married for ten years,” Greg said, eyes looking off to the distance, “It just feels…odd to return to this grotty flat and have no one else there. She didn’t even live here and I keep expecting her to turn up. Keep having to remind myself I’m alone. It’s pitiful at my age, you know?” 

 

Greg saw Mycroft close up for just a moment. It was barely a flicker of the eyes but it was there. Perhaps he’d gotten better at reading the man.

 

“Christ, sorry. You live alone in a huge house, don’t you? Sherlock has said before that you don’t date much, that the ring’s a useful sham.”

 

“You’re being very kind in sparing me whatever disparaging remark he added to that,” Mycroft said, voice soft. He straightened and gave him a smile that Greg could now see was completely fake. Just barely on the side of happiness, to soothe anyone worried about him.

 

“I’m not sure this is comforting, but one can get used to being alone. Tonight is not about me, however,” Mycroft continued, “I believe I’m supposed to listen to your troubles and then tell you she wasn’t worth it and that you could do better.”

 

Greg chuckled. “Where are you getting this stuff? Is there a manual for when your mates break up with someone? I’m not going to expect some sort of kissogram or something to cheer me up am I?”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes but Greg could see the smile, a genuine one, playing on his lips. That was much better. “I bought you dinner. I can’t be expected to fund all of your recovery.”

 

Greg snorted before he looked down at the amber colour of his beer for a moment, nursing a private smile. “You remember when we met? I thought you were a posh arsehole.”

 

“You weren’t very accommodating,” Mycroft sniffed, “In fact, I thought you were being rather annoyingly impolite.”

 

“Oh come on, I thought you had the biggest bloody bollocks I’d ever seen, trying to bribe me,” Greg argued with a grin, “You can’t blame me for throwing you out.”

 

“Telling you that I could make it easier on you meant that I could make any administrative issues go away and that I could clear it with your superiors, as I’ve said  _every single time you’ve brought it up_. I was not bribing you,” Mycroft said firmly, the barest hint of a smile on his lips, “You merely took my words the wrong way…regardless of the size of my private anatomy."

 

Greg cracked up laughing. “Still think you’re posh. You’re only just occasionally an arsehole now.”

 

Mycroft stilled and their eyes met. “Well if it’s only occasionally, I suppose that’s progress.”

 

Greg’s laughter died down, the mood obviously shifting. Mycroft’s expression changed for just a moment, like he’d decided on something. Like Greg was the solution to something. That honestly should terrify him and the fact that it didn't probably indicated that Greg was long down the rabbit hole that was knowing Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. 

 

Greg sighed. “Out with it, Holmes.”

 

“My brother has made himself a bit of a nuisance in Devon…How would you like another holiday?”


	3. Close Quarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If he’s found himself some poltergeist in Ireland or some fucking vampires in Scotland, he can sort himself out. I’ve done more than enough. For God’s sake, stop calling me.”

“If he’s found himself some poltergeist in Ireland or some fucking vampires in Scotland, he can sort himself out. I’ve done more than enough. For God’s sake, stop calling me.”

 

Click.

 

_Ring, ring._

 

Calling…Mycroft Holmes.

 

Greg picked up the phone.

 

“Do you know what ‘stop calling me’ means?” Greg growled as he tried rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His alarm clock showed that it was nearly midday. 

 

“I am aware of the meaning, yes,” Mycroft replied. Greg could almost see the polite smile on the man’s face, just hinting at being very sure that Greg didn’t mean it. Smug twat.

 

“Then do it…,” Greg sighed, “Christ, Mycroft, I could still be under the spell of that fucking gas for all I know and I had to deal with a man being blown to bits in Devon. I’m grateful for the car you sent to take me home but I’m really not in the mood for your ‘thanks for your service to my brother and the country’ speech.”  

 

“I didn’t know. There shouldn’t have been any of that gas _left-_ ”

 

“Bullshit. You know everything.”

 

“Gregory, the H.O.U.N.D. Project was canceled years ago. Anything he was doing was done without anyone’s knowledge. Do you think I would have sent you without prior knowledge of it if I truly thought it a danger?”

 

“You know what, I don't know. You’re wrapped up in your suits like they're armour and underneath that you’re wrapped up in a mask that hides everything else. I’m just me, simple and uncomplicated.  You pretty much know where you stand when it comes to me.”

 

“I don’t, not really. At times I think you don’t like me at all.”

 

Greg took a long, deep breath. “Come off it, I’m just a bit peeved at you. That wasn’t really a holiday if you end up nearly shitting yourself in the middle of nowhere. Did you truly not know?”

 

“Gregory, by the time I made the connection between the H.O.U.N.D Project and what my brother was investigating, you were already heading for your last confrontation with it. I didn’t look into it as much as I should have because I thought it wasn’t something I needed to investigate fully. It was only a mythical dog. The last I had spoken to Sherlock, he thought his case was connected to what was going on there but it could have been anything."

 

“I'm not even going to ask what else in Baskerville it could have been just to save me some nightmares. So...you're saying even geniuses make mistakes?”

 

“I had full confidence that you could handle anything thrown your way.”

 

“Still didn’t hear you admitting you made a mistake.”

 

“You didn’t, _did you_?”

 

“You’re a twat.”

 

“Yet you’re still talking to me. I wonder what that says about you?”

 

“That I was very wicked in a past life and am now a glutton for punishment.”

 

“Are you saying I’m your punishment?”

 

“Yeah…I think I might be. Look, I need to sleep this off. Could you, you know, make sure any emergency calls are handled by other people? I’m going to take this opportunity to remind you that you owe me.”

 

“I’ll try to even the score then, shall I? Pleasant dreams, Gregory.”

 

“After the past few days I’ve had? Yeah right. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

* * *

 

 

The flowers arrived the day Greg returned to work. The bouqet was primarily composed of some yellow roses with red tips and some white flower he didn't know the name of scattered here and there. One of the PCs, who fancied himself a bit of a gardner, was happy to tell him the white flowers were called rues. 

 

Nestled between a few of the flowers was an expensive looking envelope. Greg began to suspect who his admirer was. It was not, as so many of his colleagues were suspecting, some woman he'd met on the coast of France. No, that would have been too easy. He turned the envelope over and opened it. The contents were then revealed to be a ticket to the Arsenal game in a few days time. He quickly looked up the seating plan for Emirates Stadium to see where he'd be sitting. 

 

The ticket was to one of the best seats that could be had in the entire stadium. Greg’s eyes flicked back to the flowers. The expensive envelope, the artfully arranged flowers…

 

There really was just one person who could have sent them.

 

_To: Mycroft Holmes_

_Subject: Your Sense of Humour is Strange._

_Most people could just say sorry and buy their mates a drink you know. Now I’ve got all my colleagues gossiping outside about who I went away on holiday with that’s been sending me flowers. I’ve been delightfully informed by one PC, after I corrected him about who might have sent them, that the rues mean regret, apology, and repentance while the yellow roses with red tips mean friendship._

_I’ll admit the ticket was a nice touch but it’s no fun going alone. You should have bought one for yourself._

_Ta,_

_Greg_

_P.S. On second thought, buy one for yourself. I want to see you at a football match._

 

About an hour later he got a reply.

 

_To: Gregory Lestrade_

_Re: Your Sense of Humour is Strange._

_Ah, but the flowers have alerted all the eligible men and women you know to look at your now missing wedding ring. You’ll thank me later when you’re awash in offers for dates and drinks after work._

_Yes, of course. You got my meaning perfectly. It has always amused me the wildly different meanings you can take from just one flower. The duplicity of the language is quite interesting, don’t you think?_

_Yours,_

_Mycroft_

_P.S. Gregory, why would I have given you my ticket? That makes no sense at all._

 

Greg chuckled. He had to hand it to the man, Mycroft could certainly skillfully manipulate his emotions. He should still be rightfully put off of him, but he wasn’t. It was probably a sure sign of insanity, but Mycroft made him laugh, more so now than ever before actually. Perhaps it was just a sign of Greg’s status as the man’s friend that meant Mycroft could reveal more of himself to him.

 

_Re: Your Sense of Humour is Strange._

_Yeah, I’m sure they’ll all queing up to take a tired DI home when they’ve got all those younger ones just starting out who are a hell of lot more good looking than me._

_God, I see what you mean. How would you know if hydrangeas meant frigidness or that you were being thanked for being so understanding?_

_-Greg_

_P.S. Oh of course. You’re just trying to sweeten me up so I’ll do more of your bidding. Sherlock already thinks you have me on a leash. He knew instantly who’d sent me._

 

It was a slow day and Greg spent most of it trying to work on the mountain of paperwork that was threatening to consume his desk. Memos, appointments for health and safety seminars, summaries of cases, and all the other detritus of his work all demanded his attention.

 

His computer pinged. He had an email. He immediately set aside anything he'd been working on.

 

_Re: Your Sense of Humour is Strange._

_I think you haven’t looked in a mirror lately if you do not think people will be queuing to ask you for drinks or back to their bedrooms. You’re kind, understanding, and one of the better looking single DIs at the Yard. Or have you never wondered why you’re so often chosen to be the face of the Yard for the press?_

_And to answer your question, I would know if the hydrangeas were sent to me. I’m sure you’re aware of my reputation._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft_

_P.S. I rather thought I was apologising for the trials of your trip to Devon. Sherlock is being resentful and childish and you know that. I do hope I don’t need a leash to enlist your aid with him._

 

Greg was shaking his head as read. Mycroft was smart, but God was he thick in some areas.

 

_Re: Your Sense of Humour is Strange._

_Are you saying I’m sexy? I think you need your eyes checked mate. Couldn’t keep the wife’s interest, could I? Ex-wife, Christ. I can’t seem to get used to writing that._

_I know your reputation and the more I get to know you, the more I think it’s bullshit. You care, you just like to lock it up so tightly that very few people can see it. Someone who was made of ice would have abandoned Sherlock as a lost cause. You understand me well enough too, most of the time._

_-Greg_

_P.S. Not really a kink of mine, I’ll admit. I do most of what you tell me to do anyway._

 

For a moment, Greg thought he might be flirting. Flirting with Mycroft Bloody Holmes. What’s more, he thought Mycroft might be returning the flirtation. He snorted and shook his head. It was Mycroft’s turn for an offensive anyway.

 

_Re: Your Sense of Humour is Strange._

_I’m not answering that as I fear you would be far too smug. I am, however, not blind to your charms, Gregory. You will be much sought after. Don’t think of yourself as having to plan a future where you’re always alone. That will not be the case. I promise._

_I find you endlessly intriguing. Not many people argue with me as you do and even less win. You have proven very difficult to deal with at times. And before you say anything, I know you think I am difficult in return. Your perspective has always been a bit skewed._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft_

_P.S. Nor is it mine. I will see you in a few days, unless Sherlock does anything that might need my particular interference before then._

Greg returned to work, more out of a need for a distraction than anything else. He still wasn’t absolutely certain Mycroft was flirting in return, the ruddy complex git. He'd never denied how attractive he Mycroft and their relationship  _was_ getting better lately. But Greg had just gotten divorced. He'd not so much as gone out to find someone for a shag yet. 

 

That's what was supposed to happen, wasn't it? Before jumping into anything more? Feeling anything more? 

 

There was something there though, between him and Mycroft, even Greg had to admit it. He just had to sit down and figure it out. Pull apart the tangled threads and make a clear accounting of things.

 

Even if that meant he had to try figuring out a Holmes. 


	4. Counter Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes had gotten under his bloody skin and just sat there being sexy and interesting and infuriating and just a little bit mysterious. Damn him to hell.

“I still say he was way outta line,” Greg ranted as they got out of Mycroft's car.

 

Arsenal had won, of course, but that didn't mean Greg wasn't going to argue about how much more they should have won by. The high from a good football match was potent and Greg was still soaring from it. His enthusiasium was infectious; even Mycroft felt a bit giddy from it, even if his chosen method of showing it was a mere smile.

 

 

“He was incorrect in his ruling, yes,” Mycroft agreed, “But what’s done is done.”

 

 

Greg rolled his eyes and nudged Mycroft with his shoulder. “Knew you weren’t the type to get up and yell and cheer. Think you’re better suited to Ascot or something refined where all they do is that sodding posh clapping. You’ve not even got a proper Arsenal shirt.”

 

 

“Ah,” Mycroft argued, “but I did dress up in Arsenal red and gold. Surely I get points for that?”

 

 

Greg looked him over. Mycroft looked…good in his knitted red jumper over a gold button up. Good was probably faint praise. The man was wearing those tight jeans again, the same he’d worn the night he’d come over with takeaway and sympathy after Greg’s divorce. Greg had caught himself guiltily looking at Mycroft’s arse more than once during breaks in the match. It was a fine arse. 

 

“Yeah, alright,” Greg admitted grudgingly, “You’d probably look like a right knob in football kit. Want to…want to come up and have that drink then? I know you said it was for whatever time you came over next but why not now? I know you didn't drink whatever your friends there were offering.”

 

 

“Of course I’ll come in and have a drink,” Mycroft said, pleased at the invitation, “But they’re not my friends. Merely a rather _important_ family who me a favour who happen to have terrible taste in alcohol.”

 

 

Greg was shaking his head in disbelief as he unlocked his front door. “So Sherlock’s not the only one who gets favours from every Tom, Dick or Harry in need?”

 

 

“I have certain people who owe me favours for helping solve whatever problems they had, yes.”

 

 

Greg just grinned and went to go pour their drinks. Mycroft had rather astutely made sure his drink of choice had arrived with him when he came to pick Greg up. Whatever this thing with Mycroft was, and Greg was no longer certain it could be classified as mere friendship, he had a feeling the quality of the food and drink in his kitchen was sure to get better. He'd probably come home one day to see Mycroft had filled it with stuff from Fortnum & Mason so that he had something to eat when he came to visit. 

 

Mycroft's phone rang as Greg came back into the living room. He pulled it out to see who it was and then gave Greg an apologetic look. 

 

“I have to take this. If you’ll allow me to go to your bedroom?”

 

 _Oh God yes._ Greg blinked. Shit. He then scrambled to actually answer the man. 

 

“Sure, I’ll just sit over here. No need to worry about me prying in on super secret squirrel stuff,” he replied, hiding his sudden turmoil under a genial smile. “Go ahead.” 

 

Mycroft smiled in response and hit accept on his phone just as he shut the door, leaving Greg to hold his head in his hands.

 

Shit. Bugger. Fuck. This was quickly getting ridiculous. 

 

 _Oh God yes?_ Was he really that gagging for it?

 

Greg answered his own question. Of course. Of course he was. Mycroft Holmes had gotten under his bloody skin and just sat there being sexy and interesting and infuriating and just a little bit mysterious. Damn him to hell.

 

God, what was he going to do about it? How do you tell someone like Mycroft Holmes that you wanted to roll around and get sweaty with him? It didn’t really seem like Mycroft enjoyed getting sweaty but was his distaste for getting sweaty in anyway mitigated by a rocking good orgasm provided by Greg himself? 

 

Maybe Greg was over-thinking things. His only excuse was that it had been over a decade since he'd have to deal with any of this. He was suddenly reminded of being a teenager, being worried if your crush actually liked you and sweating bullets at the thought of asking them out. They were friends, he knew that but were they more? What if he'd read it all wrong? 

  

A few minutes later, Mycroft stepped out of Greg’s bedroom, having finished his call. The smile on his face struck Greg as very odd and he couldn’t quite place it. It was tight and all a bit wrong on the man's face. “All sorted then? Or are you rushing off to save the world once more?”

 

Mycroft sat down beside him, looking the other way. “All sorted,” he repeated, “Though I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything more than that.”

 

Greg turned to face him. “Yeah, well I figured that. If I found out, you’d have to kill me, right?” He laughed. 

 

Something flickered in Mycroft’s eyes, too quickly for Greg to figure out what it was. Suddenly Mycroft shifted his gaze to meet Greg’s eyes, staring at them with great intensity. Greg felt frozen, like he’d been caught in the headlights of a car and he couldn’t move to safety. His heart pounded. They were dangling on a precipice, sky above and God knew what below. Something important was in the balance. 

 

Just one of them had to be brave enough to jump.

 

“Mycroft, I-“

 

Mycroft never let him complete that sentence. Greg was suddenly being kissed, lips meeting his and locking on to him like they’d been starving for his touch. Greg took his hands and placed them on Mycroft’s cheeks, caressing the skin as he lunged forward to ask for more. Following his urges, he swung his hips over Mycroft’s body so he could straddle the man before he even thought about leaning back and ending the kiss.

 

He suspected the smile on his face was far too eager than he intended as his chest heaved with breathlessness. 

  

“Yeah?”

 

Mycroft took in a deep breath, tongue peeking out quickly to wet his lips. He nodded.

 

“Yes.”

 

Happy, Greg dove in for another deep kiss before he began moving his lips along Mycroft’s jaw. He wanted to taste every part of him, to know him inside and out. “You have been so damn frustrating,” he murmured in between kisses, “Too sexy for your own good, you are.”

 

Mycroft let out a breathless laugh. He tipped his head back. “You are far too sexy yourself, I simply can’t compare.”

 

“Oh hush.”

 

Greg pushed Mycroft’s jumper over the man’s head and threw it behind him. His hands quickly came up to start unbuttoning the shirt that had been underneath the jumper as he kissed Mycroft once again.

 

Meanwhile Mycroft’s hands crept round to grasp Greg’s arse and pulled him tightly in so that Greg ground against Mycroft’s hips. They both moaned almost simultaneously as their cocks met, a spike of pleasure rolling through their bodies. Greg pressed his face against Mycroft’s shoulder. He needed a moment or this would end before it had begun. 

 

“Christ, you make me so desperate for you. I can't...I-” Greg growled breathlessly, “Let me take you to bed?”

 

“Please. Take me to bed, take me, just please do so now,” Mycroft half-pleaded, half-demanded. The man sounded like pure sex now, his voice low and smooth. Greg could probably just come from being talked to him. He shivered at the thought, the idea that he’d just lie there while Mycroft narrated precisely what he wanted to do to Greg. 

 

Having gathered his wits, he finally stood, allowing Mycroft to do the same. Taking his hand, Greg led him to the bedroom, noting with distant amusement that Mycroft had picked up his jumper along the way. Even the prospect of sex would not prevent Mycroft from making sure his clothes were in order. Greg would have to do something about that one day. 

 

Once inside, Greg watched Mycroft begin to remove his shirt and neatly fold his clothes into a pile. It was only when the man’s chest was revealed that Greg remembered the point of it all was that he was to be naked too, preferably as soon as possible. He started to follow suit. 

 

“Like what you see?” Mycroft asked with a coy smile. He was wearing only his pants now and Greg could see the outline of his erection. Greg wanted to take it into his hand and then into his mouth. He wanted to see how it felt and how it tasted. God, he just wanted everything to do with the man. He felt as if this thing between them was him coming home somehow, that this thing, this relationship that he wouldn't have thought would work months ago now suddenly did. 

 

“You know I do,” Greg replied as he walked up to Mycroft, eyes drinking in the tall, wonderfully arousing body before him. He removed his own shirt and pressed his body against the other man's. “I want to kiss every single one of those damn freckles. You have no idea." 

 

Mycroft’s hands ran down Greg’s chest and arms before reaching around and pulling Greg closer. “Take the rest of your clothes off and I might just let you.”

 

“Your wish is my command,” Greg said, winking at him. He quickly rid himself of any more clothes and sat down on the bed. He held his hand out and gestured to himself. “Now…do you like what _you_ see?”

 

Mycroft removed the very last piece of clothes he was wearing and sauntered over to the bed. Slowly he trailed a lone finger down Greg’s chest. He cocked his head as if he were considering the question. “As it happens, I do. You’re exquisite.”

 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Holmes,” Greg cheekily returned, “And before you ask, I’ve been tested and I know you know I’ve not been with anyone else since my ex. Now take what you want before I change my mind.”

 

Mycroft pushed him back on the bed, and Greg scrambled to rearrange himself so he was lying down, spread out and on display for the man staring at him with pure hunger in his eyes. Hunger for him. Greg would never have imagined it possible. Mycroft moved to straddle Greg and for a brief moment they stared at each other, just enjoying the fact that they were there and together. 

 

Greg pushed himself up so that he could capture Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft followed him back down on the bed, opening his mouth to Greg's tongue. Their tongues twisted around each other, engaged in the most pleasurable of fencing matches. They were exhaustive in their efforts to touch every part of the other with lips and tongue and teeth. No part of them would be left unexplored. Mycroft's gaze was mesmerizing making Greg feel as if he were being catalogued to better know what pleased him. It was intensively dirty. 

 

Mycroft pressed his hips down, grinding against Greg. He moaned, body arching up to seek out even more contact. It all felt so bloody good. Fantastic even, as if it all fit. Something missing had suddenly been found and all at the hands of Mycroft Holmes.

 

Mycroft kissed his jaw and then moved down his neck, pausing now and again to taste Greg's skin. Greg felt absolutely cherished as he felt the man’s lips move down to his shoulder and then he gasped as he felt Mycroft make a mark there. He'd been claimed. No one else would see it but Greg would know it was there, marking Greg as Mycroft's. 

 

“Christ, oh God.” Greg moaned, “ _Fuck me_.”

 

“That is what we’re doing, yes.” Mycroft loomed above him, eyes sparkling with laughter. “But how would you like me to do it? How...would you like me to fuck you?”

 

Greg looked at him for a moment, Mycroft's words making him feel jubilant.  The world was on offer and he had merely to take it. “Every way we can think of,” Greg replied wickedly, “But first…”

 

With no warning, Greg flipped them over so that Mycroft was on his back. All that lean, long body below him and it was all for him to enjoy and to give pleasure to. He licked his lips before giving Mycroft a good and proper snog. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg's neck. It seemed as if Mycroft could kiss him all day and Greg might just try him on it later. Instead, Greg took them both in hand, pumping it down the length of their cocks as he thrusted against Mycroft's length. Greg gasped as the pleasure rose once again. 

 

Mycroft threw his head back. They moved together, harder and faster, racing towards completion. Mycroft was magnificent, beautiful…sublime beneath him. He was perfect and so eager to please. Greg had closed his eyes as he felt his desire grow. He was so close. Mycroft nipped his bottom lip and Greg opened his eyes again to see Mycroft staring at him with the most desperate look he'd ever seen, as if he wanted to cling to Greg forever and didn't think he could. 

 

They moved together now, rubbing and thrusting in perfect sync as they raced to the finish. 

 

Suddenly it all rose up, all the longing and confusion he'd felt so very recently. Greg could take it no more and he cried out against Mycroft’s shoulder as he came, pleasure rolling over him. Knowing Mycroft had not yet reached completeion, he continued moving his hand against Mycroft’s cock, moving quicker than he had before. He wanted Mycroft to feel what he was still feeling, the elation of reaching the pinnacle of physical pleasure. 

 

“Come on,” Greg demanded, “I want to see you release everything for me, Mycroft. Let yourself go, I've got you."

 

With a whimper from Mycroft's lips, his back arched. Mycroft closed his eyes tightly and stifled what would have been a beautiful and loud moan. Greg wished he could have heard it in all his glory. He would have to take him to task for that later. At the moment though, he was too blissed out to say much of anything. He half collapsed on top of his lover as they both finished, and he lay there trying to get his breath back. 

 

“That was…Jesus, Mycroft,” Greg breathed, “What’ve we been waiting for?”

 

“As I seem to recall, you didn’t like me much and you were married besides,” Mycroft eventually replied as Greg cleaned them both up, “You were wonderful though.”

 

Greg rolled on his back and pulled Mycroft to him. The bliss had settled into his bones, making him relaxed and a little bit drowsy. He yawned. “Mmm…well, seems like we’ve got a lot to make up for.”

 

“In time,” Mycroft replied with a serene smile, “We both need to recover first. Sleep, Gregory.”

 

Greg kissed Mycroft’s hair and closed his eyes. Sleep was very much needed. 

 

They would have time later to explore each other further. Greg was sure of it. 

* * *

 

The message in Mycroft's phone was damning in its finality.

 

Plan B was now in effect, whether Mycroft wanted it to be or not. He’d suspected it the night before of course, but he had hoped he could wake in Gregory’s arms and everything would be righted. It was a vain hope that their first plan would have worked, that it would not have come to this. What silly hopes sentiment could create. What weakness it all was. 

 

Mycroft began to dress for the day, each piece a part of his armour. He would need that armour in the coming days.  He now had a part to play and must now prepare to play it. 

 

He selfishly took one minute more to watch Greg sleep. He became still for a moment, watching his lover’s chest rise and fall, the very breath of life entering and leaving the man’s body in a steady rhythm. He didn’t want to go, didn’t want to see the serene expression on the man’s face disappear. He didn’t want to see it replaced by doubt and fear and sadness as he knew it soon would be. He didn't want to do what would surely result in the end of something so recently born. 

 

But caring was never an advantage and now they would all see the proof of it. 

 

Mycroft told himself it only made sense to text rather than call. It wouldn’t do to wake Greg, not just yet. And It gave him more time to imagine the uncertain chance that he would ever be let into the man’s bed again, of nights and futures that might not be possible. He wanted those nights desperately, but what had to be done was necessary to save them all. 

 

With one last look, he left to meet the car waiting for him, pressing send as he went through the door: 

 

_To: Sherlock Holmes_

_I warned you it would come to this. There’s absolutely nothing I can do to help you now. MH_


End file.
